A Fallen King
by Your Favorite Worst Dream
Summary: Everyone wants to be Rosalie King. Everyone, that is, except Rosalie. AU, AH, R/Em.
1. Chapter 1

**I know I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter for _Held Captive_, but i couldn't resist an opportunity at my first Rosalie/Emmett centered story. Here it is.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_Twilight _**or Jack's Mannequin.****

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**Chapter One:  
Alone in a Crowded Room**

"Have you ever been alone in a crowded room?"

-_Dark Blue_, by Jack's Mannequin

Everyone stared when she entered the room.

Her scarlet lace dress, hugging every curve just right, swished gently with each stiletto-clad step. Diamonds glittered on her creamy skin above the delicate sweetheart neckline and in a matching pair of earrings. Smoky violet eyes surveyed the room and her ruby red lips curled in a smile she didn't feel. Her golden hair was piled on top of her head in with almost careless elegance. Her husband's arm around her waist tightened in obvious ownership.

In the social climbing, money grasping society where everyone was vying for dominance, the Kings ruled as thoroughly as their name foretold. The elite of Rochester, New York threw themselves to their knees to even talk to the rich family of bankers, especially the young Royce II and his beautiful wife, Rosalie.

To those on the outside, the recently married couple was something to aspire to, a level of status and complete perfection to dream for at night. The Kings had more money than God and owned businesses all over the state. Saying that all the others in their social ranking were jesters would be an accurate statement with their desperate dancing for a look, a word, or a deal that could change their lives.

And yet, in the quiet, introspective thoughts of Rosalie King, _she_ felt like the jester, painted with bright harlequin's makeup and going through a preconceived dance, scripted by etiquette, taught by her mother.

As Royce guided her through the room, introducing her to well-distinguished business partners and their docile wives, Rosalie would smile and laugh and say all the right things for the occasion. She had, after all, been taught by the biggest fake in the country. Rosalie had taken stage queues and starred in her parents' grand plans for scaling the social ladder since she had been old enough for people to appreciate her beauty.

Now, though, she had made the ultimate move. Rosalie Lillian Hale had married the richest bachelor on the east coast, and she and her parents were set for life, destined to live comfortable lives in the lap of luxury. It would be nothing but silk, diamonds, town cars, and mansions for them now. The Hales had been euphoric with this, but Rosalie was only left with a husband she barely knew and the growing certainty that she'd made the worst mistake that could possibly be made.

But she mustn't think of those things. Not now, not ever, and especially not when she is at such an exclusive function with her equals in status. No, doubts and regrets can only be let out in the dark of night, when Royce was asleep and the maids weren't there to hear her as she collapsed into sobs in the kitchen. Now, she has to appear on top of the world and utterly in love with the man whose arm she held. Rosalie would dutifully follow the steps and stare lovingly into his eyes, hold his hand, and kiss his cheek with counterfeit pride.

In a room the size of a stadium, filled with the _crème de la crème_ of the upper crust, Rosalie was completely alone.

This epiphany was not new to her, yet it still chilled her heart. She didn't want to have to lie now, didn't want to have to pretend for one night out of her whole life. She wanted, for just a solitary hour or so, to be _Rosalie Hale_ again.

Feeling the beautiful smile crack, she leaned toward Royce and softly whispered in his ear. "I'm not feeling the best, honey. Do you mind if I can have Ronald drive me home early?" She batted her eyelashes with a studied vulnerability and let her lips fall into a slight pout.

Royce, still chuckling his awful, greasy laugh from what the man next to him had said, barely turned to look at her as he said jovially, "Sure thing darling. Feel better." His hand crept lower, giving her a sharp pinch, and he pushed her away, like an object, like a _thing_. But Rosalie kept the smile in place and walked away with enough elegance to make any seasoned runway model green with envy.

In the cold, clear night, she let the smile fall off her face, let her shoulders slump from their rigid posture, and let the sadness flow into her expression, which, she had been taught, should be nothing but happy and content.

Ronald, the wizened old man who had been driving generations of Kings since he had a license, put out his cigarette and opened the door for her out of pure reflex. He saw the look on her face and kept his mouth shut, quickly walking around the side of the stately town car and getting in hurriedly. He started the engine, not liking the sound of its gasping intakes, and started toward the King's manor house.

They were half way there, on a deserted, bumpy road, when the engine gave out, sputtering and emitting a worrying steam.

"Damn," cursed Ronald, hitting the steering wheel with exasperation. "I'm sorry, Mrs. King. This car had been giving me trouble for the past month and I shouldn't have taken it for tonight of all nights." He looked sheepishly at her through the rear view mirror, expecting to hear a screeching rant of his incompetence like the ones her heard from Royce's mother. But Rosalie only sat there, a contemplative look on her face before she seemed to have made a decision.

"I'll be right back, Ronald." Rosalie, as calm and cool as ever, stepped out of the car and loped toward the front of the car before, with no hesitation whatsoever, she opened the hood. He sat in silence for a few moments before following suit to see what she was doing.

What she was doing, in the least complicated and non-mechanical of terms, was fixing the car. Her manicured fingers, now stained with grease, played with this and that in the metal maze that even Ronald couldn't make sense of with complete certainty. Several curls had escaped the stylish arrangement they were set in and chaotically framed her face. A smile, the most content and free one Ronald had ever seen gracing the young bride, played on her lips. He had seen her dressed for many social occasions, but here, her hands thrust in an engine and her mind lost in a happy daze of mechanics, Rosalie King was more beautiful than any other time he had seen her.

Her brow wrinkled in thought, then after a few minor tweaks and pulls, she turned to him, excited and happy, and announced, "There! That should do it." She stayed rooted in her spot as Ronald cautiously got in the car and turned the key. Much to his bewildered surprise, it started, purring to life like it was new.

Leaning out the window, Ronald asked, "How did you ever learn to do that, Mrs. King?"

The name, already holding more resentment than Rosalie could bear, broke her out of her content stupor. "It doesn't matter, Ronald," she said quickly, wringing her oiled hands in frustration. "Just," she stopped, groping for words. "Could you just do me a favor and not tell anyone about this? _Especially_ Royce." The look on her beautiful face tore at his heart. It was like she was desperately fighting to hold onto the one thing that was actually _hers_, which no one else could touch. Maybe she was.

"Of course, Mrs. King," he assured, trying not to notice how she recoiled slightly at the name again. He was going to leave it at that, but something about her, standing in a party dress on a cold, dark, road, utterly hopeless, pulled him back. "You know," he hazarded. "This life may seem overwhelming now, but it will get better eventually. I'm sorry I can't say anything more comforting than that, but it's all I can promise."

She wiped a tear from her eye, trying desperately to hide it. He gave the girl her moment, and then attempted to smile genially. "Come now; let's go home, shall we?" She nodded sadly and climbed into the back.

They drove on, and soon the mansion loomed into sight, as cold and dark as the prison Rosalie imagined it to be.

000

"Hello, this is Dr. Snow calling for Rosalie King. I just wanted to tell you that you can come in tomorrow morning for your test results if it suits your schedule. Goodbye."

Rosalie's finger wavered over the delete button of the answering machine before finally taking the plunge and pressing it. To her, the mechanical voice, informing her that there were no more messages, sounded mocking, the silence that followed pitying. The empty house held its breath with Rosalie, wondering in unison, trying to decode the man's tone of voice, hoping along side her that it wasn't as apprehensive as she had thought.

Like a ghost, she climbed the large marble steps to her and Royce's bedroom, taking off the dress slowly, hanging it with care, placing all the jewelry in their special cases, and changing to a nightgown. She sat at her vanity, picking the various pins out of her hair with thoughtless precision, feeling nothing but the looming fate that lay enshrouded in clouds of uncertainty.

Rosalie looked up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Even when she had removed all makeup and every trace of the rich life she led from her face, she was still gorgeous. Though, this fact didn't bring the smug satisfaction it used to when she was younger. These days, she looked upon her beauty with the bitterness of blame. To her, the face, hair, figure, and violet eyes only led down paths that her parents had forced her down.

"_Mirror, mirror on the wall_," she chanted with building anger, "_who's the fairest of them all_?" She held her own gaze for a minute, half expecting her reflection to respond, but soon dropped her eyes. Rosalie pushed the chair back on weary legs and turned her back to what she was. In a voice of those broken-hearted and trapped, she muttered, "_I am_."

She turned off the lights and curled herself up in the large bed, ignoring the numb sensation that was building within her.

Soon, Royce was home. Rosalie woke from her light slumber to the sound of his thoroughly drunk voice echoing in the entry hall. Then, the slamming snap of his dress shoes on the wood floor alerted her of his stumbling progress to their room. He opened the door with a slam, humming an unrecognizable song loudly.

He didn't seem to notice that his wife was sleeping as he started, in a loud, slurring voice, to shout praises to her. "You should have _seen_ their faces, Rosalie! How the men looked at you, in that _dress_, gave me such a feeling of _power_, because, baby, I have you and _nobody_ else does!" Royce, tux and all, fell onto the bed and he tried to position himself beside her. Rosalie feigned sleep.

"_Helen_ of _Troy_ wouldn't compare to _you_, darling," he whispered in what was supposed to be his seducing voice. He put a hand on Rosalie's hip and shook gently. "Rosalie, baby? Wake up!" She stubbornly kept her eyes closed though and threw in a little bit of movement to make it look more believable. Not that he was sober enough to notice.

Royce gave up and collapsed back into an alcohol induced slumber, snoring loudly. Occasionally he would mutter something unintelligible, often he would roll over to reposition himself, but never did he notice how this wife's side of the bed shook with her not quite restrained sobbing.

Her world, whatever she had ever had of it, was falling around her. The beautiful glitz and glamour she had once found so enthralling were now nothing more than a petty distraction from the pointless lives that those in the high society led.

Rosalie just wished she had found that out before she became chained to it all.

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**Emmett joins us in the next chapter. Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own _Twilight _or Death Cab for Cutie. You caught me.

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Chapter Two:**

**So Many Men Who Would Have Loved You More**

"And as the flashbulbs burst  
She holds a smile like someone would hold a crying child

But you said your vows, and you closed the door  
On so many men who would have loved you more"

- _Cath…_ by Death Cab for Cutie

Fairytales are curious things. They will sweep you off your feet and launch you into a world where beautiful maidens of lowly status frequently marry handsome, and _terribly_ rich, princes that they barely know. After the marriage of the two unsuited lovers, they will drive off in a flurry of song, only the joyful silhouette of their retreating carriage with the words "And they lived happily ever after" hanging in the air.

A fairytale will never tell of how the ignorant maiden is jarringly taken over by feelings of intense misplacement in the new, bejeweled world that the prince drags her unknowingly into. It won't let on to how the maiden and the prince never _truly_ get to know each other and slowly become strangers. And a fairytale wouldn't dare describe how the beautiful maiden stumbled out of the local hospital in Rochester, New York, with her final hope of any happiness broken into little, bitty pieces.

No, this heartbreaking scene would be excluded from the bright and blissful pages of a story book. Like the society that this particular maiden was in, one's distress is held close and hid from the audience. They didn't need to know that the beautiful maiden was barren.

Upon taking her first step out of the hospital, Rosalie saw the black town car waiting for her, Ronald leaning against the side and flipping through a magazine. She knew what she was _supposed_ to do: go obediently over to it and let herself be driven to that house she refused to call a home, to Royce. But she also knew what she _wanted _to do; which was run in the opposite direction to the park she could just see a few streets over. Perhaps she could find a few moments of peace and time to think about what she was going to do now. So, for the first time in over a year, Rosalie did what she wanted, not what she was supposed to do, and started down the sidewalk toward the park.

She steered her mind away what Doctor Snow had said, attempting to block out his condemning words, but it just kept bringing itself back. Every time she would pass a shiny store front, she'd see her reflection, sad and lost. She tried to stop the tears from coming to her eyes and failed miserably.

If there was one dream that Rosalie has had in her life, that _wasn't_ forced on her by her parents, it was to someday have children of her own. Since she was a small girl, playing with porcelain dolls, she had looked upon motherhood as a glorious thing and vowed that she would be the best mother in the world. Namely, _not_ her mother. But when she had finally convinced Royce that they were ready for a child, it just _didn't happen_. Weeks and months had passed by with no results, only a growing feeling that something was wrong with her.

It really shouldn't have surprised Rosalie that life had thrown her this curveball, though; life, she knew, didn't like her in the slightest. She had been the punch line in so many of its jokes, she didn't know whether to laugh or resort to heavy drinking.

In the park, under the violent red and orange trees, she sat down on an old, wooden bench, thankful that she had worn jeans and a cardigan. Rosalie pulled the material closer around her chest and stared down at her designer boots, ignoring the lonely tear drop that fell on the black leather and slid down to the dirt trail. She realized that she didn't have a phone, conveniently left in the expensive handbag that lay on the backseat of the town car, to call the driver with and felt oddly free with that thought.

Around her, a gust flew across the park, picking up stray leaves and blowing Rosalie's golden hair into the air. A part of her mind, the small voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother, warned that if she didn't rearrange it quickly it would loose the curl. She ignored it. Right now, the only voice that had supremacy was a calculating one, thinking of a way to tell her husband that she couldn't provide him with a Royce III. She liked listening to this voice because it was blocking off the hysterical one that came from her heart as it broke down from pain.

She had been on the bench for sometime when she noticed that something was watching her. Rosalie looked up hesitantly, feeling vulnerable instead of cool and confidant, and looked into the dark brown eyes of a horse. Or, something the _size _of a horse.

Sitting in the middle of the trail before her was a Great Dane, mammoth in volume and looking much too athletic and strong to be trifled with. The sudden appearance of this beast startled Rosalie, who was only used to the small toy dogs that her mother-in-law refused to go anywhere without. Despite all of its obviously terrifying attributes, though, those large brown eyes were comforting.

Still staring at those eyes, Rosalie held out her hand to the dog, beckoning him closer. Without hesitation, the monster trotted over with ease and sat lightly at her feet before resting its mammoth head on her lap. Rosalie, one of life's natural animal-haters, didn't mind at all. In fact, she even felt affection grow for the dog, and surprised herself by scratching it behind its ear. It tilted its head to the side and yawned lazily, the picture of ease.

This peaceful moment was interrupted by the sound of feet hitting the ground to her right and a deep voice yelling "Bear!" in a scolding tone.

Rosalie took the cry as a warning and looked around in shock, thinking that getting mauled by a bear would be the fitting development to how her day was already going. But instead of a hairy and sharp-toothed grizzly, there was a man, jogging closer to them and holding a forgotten, but extremely well chewed, Frisbee in one hand, a leash in the other.

The man, who had before been cursing his stupid dog for running away instead of catching the bit of circular plastic like he was supposed to, took one look at Rosalie's face and immediately began praising the Great Dane at the top of his mental voice. He'd always known Bear was much too smart a dog to play fetch when he could be introducing his kind owner to gorgeous women instead.

Leaning down and clipping the leash firmly to the bright red collar around Bear's neck, the man kept his eyes trained to the ground when he said, "My name's Emmett Cullen. Sorry about old Bear here; he has a tendency toward-" He stopped when he finally looked at her face and saw tears running down her delicate face. "What's wrong? Did he hurt you at all?" Before Rosalie could respond, the man's large hands gripped her forearms and pulled her to her feet, his eyes roaming her body for any scratch or bite.

"No, Mr. Cullen," she managed to find her voice. "It wasn't your dog, it's…something else." She looked up into his eyes and found herself entranced by their warm brown color, noticing that golden specks seemed to swim in their depths.

"What is it?" Emmett desperately wanted to hear this angel speak again and would do just about anything to accomplish that. "Maybe telling someone can give you a new perspective." Forcing himself to let go of her arms, Emmett started a slow pace on the path, his heart swelling when he noticed that she joined him, taking small, hesitant steps of her own.

"Do…" Rosalie took a deep breath and snuck a peak to the stranger at her left, puzzled by the feeling of safety that took over her. For some reason she wanted to tell him the truth, not one of the pretty lies she had grown up with. "Do I look…_broken_…to you?"

The question seemed a blasphemy to Emmett and he didn't stop to think when he blurted out, "You look _stunning_, not _broken_. Why would you even think of something like that?"

Even though Rosalie had been _told_ she was beautiful all throughout her life, this man, with his earnest face and sweet manner, actually made her _feel_ beautiful. The voice that sounded like her mother's rose from her subconscious and sharply reprimanded her, saying, _You shouldn't be talking to this man. You're _married_. Don't let a chance encounter with a nobody ruin your reputation._ Again, Rosalie ignored it.

Truth be told, she felt compelled to tell Emmett anything he wanted to hear. Somewhere deep inside her heart she knew that he wouldn't judge her like everyone else. He was…_different_. "I," Rosalie started, "can't have children." She said it in a low voice, like she was apologizing for something she did wrong.

There was silence on Emmett's part as his gaze slid down her arm to the large, opulent ring that rested on the woman's ring finger and restrained a sad, mournful sigh of "The good ones are always taken." He recovered from the disappointment as quickly as he could and asked, "How does your husband feel about it?"

He watched as the woman he still didn't know the name of wrung her hands in worry. "I haven't told him yet," she admitted. "With his family and me not able to provide him with a son, a successor… I'm a _terrible _wife!" She ran a hand through her golden waves of hair in unease, her violet eyes closing as another lonely tear slid down the flawless skin underneath it. "What will he think of me?"

Emmett stopped their walk and softly took her face in his hands, knowing he shouldn't be enjoying the lightening-like shock that ran through his body when their skin touched. Looking deeply into the violet eyes he was sure he would never see again, memorizing them as completely as he could, Emmett said, "From what I've seen of you in the short time we have been together, you are the sweetest, most _lovely_ woman I have ever met, and any man that is so blessed as to have you shouldn't care about anything like that."

Then he dropped his hands from her face, once again picking up the slow pace from before while absent-mindedly petting Bear in between his ears as he trotted along beside them. "I'm sorry," he said to the somewhat stunned Rosalie, "I shouldn't have been so blunt, especially to a married woman." He glanced over to her and smiled sheepishly, his broad face turning from the handsomely sharp and angular to a charming, toothy grin, with dimples on both cheeks.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one that is forcing you to listen to my sob story. It is very rude of me; I didn't mean to trouble a complete stranger."

Again he smiled, and Rosalie felt her heart fill with just the sight of its utter cheerfulness. "Well, then," Emmett said, "I suppose I ought to become acquainted with you so I will not be a stranger any longer. As I have said before, my name is Emmett Cullen, and the ugly one," he gestured vaguely in his dog's direction with the hand that held the Frisbee, "is my faithful hound, Bear. I'm from Washington originally, but now live in New York City. I'm here in Rochester on business for the construction company I work for. That's all there is, really." He turned his penetrating eyes from where they had been focused on the ground to her. "What about you? What's your story?"

"I got sucked into a fairytale that turned out to be a nightmare," she answered shortly. Though she had a sensation of release at finally having told someone, she didn't feel like explaining further. Emmett seemed to understand too, as he nodded to what she said.

Another blast of air came rushing past them and Rosalie shivered, clutching her thin cardigan tighter around herself. Emmett seemed to notice because the next moment he was pulling off his sweater. Rosalie tried to protest but just then, the T-shirt he was wearing underneath lifted, showing the most impressive display of muscle she had ever seen. Her mouth temporarily unhinged itself and her mouth went dry for a few moments before the voice in her head came roaring to life, scolding her for even thinking that way about a man that wasn't her husband.

By the time Emmett had finally managed to extricate himself from the sweater, without dropping the Frisbee or losing grip of Bear's leash, Rosalie had her face composed enough to not show that she had been drooling over his body only a few seconds ago. She took the sweater with a smile and pulled it on, giggling at how the large piece of clothing hung on her.

"Are you sure it's not too cold, Emmett? You're only in a T-shirt." And it was a thin one at that, the cotton resting on his expansive and muscular chest snugly. His large arms were bare except for the little inches of cover that the shirt provided.

Emmett shook his head with a determined manner. "I'm from Washington, remember? This weather has _nothing_ on what I used to get back there." He looked over to the woman he was having much too good a time with and saw that she was staring at his chest, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

Rosalie was preoccupied with the cracked lettering on the black shirt. She had never heard of it before and felt the need to ask about it. "Who are The Strokes?"

Not knowing whether to feel glad that a married woman wasn't checking him out or disappointed that _this_ married woman wasn't checking him out, Emmett settled for smiling slightly at her and scratching his thick mess of curls. "You've never heard of them?" he asked incredulously. "Growing up, my younger brother was so obsessed with music it was hard _not_ to hear of them. They're this big garage rock revival band from New York City, and they play excellent live."

"Oh," was all Rosalie could say. She realized with some chagrin that the only bands she knew were the Rochester Orchestra and the country club's string quartet. She hadn't even watched television since that time her mother had insisted they have a "girl's night" and had her watch ballroom dancing competitions with her. It hadn't really occurred to Rosalie to think of how out of place her docile and pampered life was to those of the outside world.

"You know," Emmett suddenly said, "I don't even know your name."

"Why do you even want to?" she asked in return, real curiosity in every word.

"Because," he said, perfectly sincere, "you happen to be the most interesting person I have met in a _really_ long time. Plus," he added in a lighter tone, "Bear seems completely smitten with you; it's only fair to let him know the name of the angel he can never have."

Rosalie bent over to come face to face with Bear, placing her hand on his thick neck. In a jokingly sugar sweet voice, she apologized, "I'm so sorry to have not introduced myself earlier, Bear. My name is Rosalie." Without looking at Emmett, she unclipped Bear from his leash, took the battered frisbee from his hand and threw it down the path ahead of them. Bear took off after it like a shot, leaving his owner and Rosalie alone.

To say that Emmett was frustrated would be an understatement. Here he was, with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, unable to do anything about it. Even if she wasn't married, he had the feeling that his normal pick-ups wouldn't work on her. She was so poised, so ethereal, so…_Rosalie_. No other word could describe the set of her shoulders, the way she would tuck a single strand of hair behind her ear, or how she could walk so seductively with so little effort.

Rosalie fascinated Emmett, in more ways than he could possibly explain.

And yet…she was _married_. It didn't matter that she was obviously unhappy and dying to get out of a relationship with a man she would never love, it didn't matter that, more than anything he could think of, Emmett wanted Rosalie with every fiber of his being. She was _married_, and that was that. She was off limits.

But when he looked over at her, she was holding her arms out in the wind, her hair trailing behind her, his sweater flapping around her slim form. _He _had made her feel free and happy in the aftermath of one of her darkest discoveries, not her husband. Emmett wanted to make her feel good every day of his life. The idea was so tempting that Emmett found himself grasping at straws just to be with her. _We can be friends,_ he told himself. _I can manage that, can't I?_

So, in his own desperate and masochistic way, Emmett did something he rarely did: put his heart on the line, for all to see. "Hey, Rose? Do you want to grab something to eat at this one place I know? It's not that far and they have the best food in Rochester."

Rosalie regarded him with a divided mind. He looked so sweet and hopeful, standing on the leaf-strewn path. His handsome face was soft, expectant, and his curly brown hair was tousled from the wind, falling attractively across his forehead. The way Emmett had said her name, _Rose_, not _Rosalie_, had made her heart skip a beat. She wanted (oh so adamantly did she want!) to say yes and join him for the rest of the day, to forget heartbreak and indefinable angst to walk more with him in the sun-dappled streets of Rochester.

But something, and she strongly suspected that mother-like voice in her mind, pulled her back. She couldn't deny that she was attracted to this man; everything about him called to her in some way. Rosalie wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through his deep brown hair, feel his muscular arms wrap around her body, look deeply into Emmett's intense eyes, and see if his lips were as soft as they looked. Every cell in her body was pulling her towards his tall and imposing frame, but, no matter how much she wanted to run off with him, she resisted.

Carefully trying to remain politely disinterested and avoiding his eyes by looking down at the now returning Bear, Rosalie shook her head. "I don't think that would be best Emmett. I'm sorry, but I think that we should just say goodbye now." Still not looking at him, she took off his sweater and handed it over to him.

"But Rose-"

"Goodbye Emmett Cullen," she said, cutting him off and looking into his face for what she thought was the last time. The rejection that she could see in his eyes hurt her heart but she pushed it out of her mind. "It was a pleasure to meet you, and, if circumstances were different, I would never want to leave." Quickly, before she lost the courage, Rosalie leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed his rough, slightly stubbled cheek. She let her lips linger longer than she ought to, feeling the tightening of his jaw as his mind processed what she had done.

Then she pulled away and left, walking forward to the end of the park, where reality would set in once more and she would find a store to let her use their phone and call Ronald. She didn't look back, even though every part of her demanded it, but she did think of how he would look: stunned and wistful in the middle of the deserted park trail, staring at her retreating form with something she wished was love.

And she was absolutely right. Man and dog would stay rooted in their spots for quite some time, long after the angel was lost among buildings and traffic. The man would shake his head with chagrin and attach the worn leash to his dog's collar before finishing the walk that had, as he only suspected then, changed his life. Soon he was back at the hotel, and later that night he fell into a fitful sleep with dreams full of sad violet eyes and soft vulnerable words in the sunlight of an autumn afternoon.

Considering Rosalie's feelings about fairytales, she would be surprised to find that she was not in the disappointing aftermath of one but smack dab in the middle. Whether it will end up as a Grimm-like tragedy or a Disney happily ever after was entirely up to chance, but one thing was for sure: a knight in shining armor doesn't always have to have a white stallion; sometimes a Great Dane does just fine.


End file.
